


Rowena Said

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Gen, Growth, Lies, Memories, Personal Growth, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Rowena says a lot of things. Not all of them are true.
Relationships: Rowena MacLeod/You
Kudos: 18





	Rowena Said

Rowena once told you she couldn't love. Pride tinged her face as she said it, as if it were an accomplishment, a feat she'd worked hard to archive. It was never a secret, her disdain for emotions, her complete and utter indifference to them. As if they were beneath her, filth under bear the soles of her high heels. Too lowly. Too human for a witch of her caliber — a witch she'd fought tooth and nail to become.

She told you she didn't cook or clean. That was what the maids were for, she reasoned. She was a lady, a missus, a queen in everything but title; housework was as beneath her as emotions.

She said she hated modern music, and proclaimed — loudly, without a shred of hesitation — her disdain for contemporary art, finding it stale, tasteless. Lacking everything that made it mean something, that made it burrow itself into people's hearts like a benevolent ghost. Nothing could compare to the good old times, she said. The muses must have abandoned humanity long ago.

She said she was the best, and the Grand Coven was beneath her. That they only bound her magic because they were frightened of her greatness for they knew they could never reach their own. That they were persecuting her — hunting her — because she was everything they wanted to be and never could. Because she was born with power, and they were born with nothing. Because she wouldn't let them control her, reign her in and tame her like an animal. Because she was  _ better. _

Rowena said she was a horrible mother, and openly expressed her disdain for children. It wasn't that she wanted to hate her son; that was just the way she was, as inborn as the red of her hair and the green of her eyes.

She claimed to hate people, humans and monsters alike. Said she felt no remorse at taking a life, innocent or not. Nobody was innocent, she mused. They'd all done something; they'd all caused pain and ruin. Had to have for, at their core, they were living beings. Their hearts beat and blood pumped in their veins. They were capable of bad as well as good, and they had to have given in, at least once. Innocence was a myth sold to the masses to manipulate them, to make them feel guilty. Rowena was long past that.

She said she trusted no one, and advised you to do the same. People would only hurt you, she told you. They would rip your heart out when you least expected it, and stomp on it until it was in ruins. Until  _ you _ were in ruins. They didn't care about you, so why should you extend that courtesy to them? You owed them nothing, and they had no right to expect otherwise. Sweet words and hugs were meaningless. Too risky in such a cruel, cruel world.

She told you Lucifer was safe. She didn't trust him — she simply  _ relied _ on him. He was her (and, by extension, your) way to the greatness she deserved, that she was owed. She assured you it would be okay.

When it turned out to not be okay, and you were bawling your eyes out, thinking her dead, she told you she'd been stupid. It was the first time you'd heard her speak negatively about herself. Rowena MacLeod had the/an ego the size of the entire world; she didn't bring herself down. Not ever.

That was when things started to change.

She spoke of revenge, of everything bad she wanted to do to the Devil and knew she couldn't for he was an archangel and she was a witch whose magic had been bound.

She convinced you to give Amara a try, and then that the Winchesters and Crowley were a safer bet. They could take care of Lucifer, she said, and the two of you wouldn't have to live in hiding anymore. You could be free again.

As the world started going to hell, she proposed a spell of going back in time. You could live out your lives in the middle ages, and, as per the witch Clea's suggestion, in Ancient Greece. It would be fun, she said. You weren't too happy about the idea, but you agreed. You would do anything for her, anything she asked. Anything to be with her, even if it meant living in times that scared you, that weirded you out with their difference to what you were used to.

To your relief, when Sam Winchester came with a proposal of partnership, Rowena agreed. She told you Lucifer couldn't hurt you. She promised she would make sure of it.

Upon noticing your discomfort, she said her flirtation with God meant nothing. She was just having some fun, she said. Nothing serious. Nothing worth getting upset over.

And later, in the Bunker's kitchen, when you were sobbing about the world's inevitable end, and admitting your feelings out loud — for what did it matter anymore? You were going to Hell anyway. There was no point in pretending you saw her as just a friend — she took your hands, said she liked you, as well, and kissed you for the very first time, and it was everything you dreamed of and more. So much more that you no longer feared Hell for you'd finally gotten a taste of Heaven.

She told you you were beautiful. She called you her wee lass, and you, in turn, proclaimed her your girl.

She called you darling, dear, love. Made you hers in actions as well as words.

She held you. Cherished you. Kissed you over and over like an addict, always craving more, and you were more than willing to give it.

She told you she loved you, out of the blue, completely unexpected. An unusual proclamation for, as loving as she was, she preferred to show it in actions rather than words. Your startled look frightened her, made her flinch, and you could tell she was flashing back to her last love, the one who'd promised her the world and had abandoned her helf dead, her thighs slick with blood, a screaming infant in her arms.

It was over in an instant for your smile, big and bright as summer skies, elicited one of her own, and before she could utter another word, your arms were thrown around her and you were holding her tight and promising it was forever. Promising  _ you _ were forever, if she wanted you.

She told you she did. More than anything, ever. 

She called you silly names — Scottish, and you always demanded an explanation. When Rowena was feeling petty, you had to resort to Google — and chastised you when you messed the simplest things up. Half-heartedly, of course, for it seemed she was incapable of getting angry at you. True anger, the kind where her magic flared and sparked and destroyed everything in its path. That was reserved for enemies. For hunters, demons, and unfriendly witches. The worst your arguments elicited were eye-rolls and doors slamming shut as she walked away, stomping like a pissed off rabbit — an adorable, pouty pissed off rabbit.

After her last horrid death at the Devil's hands, Rowena told you she was scared. She tried to keep it to herself, but it was hard to hide the nightmares that drenched her in sweat, and screams and flashbacks in the middle of the day. She told you she was terrified. Called herself pathetic, a weakling. You were quick to assure her she was not. She was just in pain. PTSD was tough on a person.

She tried to deny she had it, but eventually had to look the facts in the face. The symptoms were there, painted in her every move, every twitch. She had post-traumatic stress disorder. And she was terrified of it.

She said she missed her son, and expressed regret you'd never before seen on her face, especially about her treatment of him. She'd been a horrible mother to him. She'd hurt him. Abused him. Abandoned him like he was trash she couldn't wait to get rid of. He'd been the one person who'd loved her unconditionally, who'd depended on her, and she'd let him down. She'd put him through hell. And when she'd found him again all these centuries later, she'd proceeded to do the same.

She told you she let down everyone in her life. Fergus. Oskar. Herself. And, eventually, she would let you down as well. You took her hand and told her — promised her, swore it on your life — that would never happen. She was a different person now. She'd changed.

She thought herself unworthy of redemption, only to be assured by you, and later by the Winchesters, that there was a chance for her. She could redeem herself. She could become a good person. In your eyes, she already had.

She talked sweet to you when you were sick. Made you potions and let you rest on her chest. Rocked you like a child in need of comfort.

She expressed her distaste at the amount of sugar in your tea and coffee, but still made them for you every single morning — exactly the way you liked them, sugar galore. She cooked your favorite foods to surprise you, and made you that cake you liked but couldn't seem to get the recipe to work. She made it work.

She took you out to shop, and complimented every outfit, even those you felt insecure wearing. Especially those. She made you feel comfortable wearing clothes you didn't think flattered you. "What is a body but a canvas?," she would say. "What is fabric but a brush and paint?" She thought you beautiful, and, by doing so, made you feel beautiful. Made you feel like a queen walking by her, an actual queen in everything but title.

She praised any work you did. Encouraged your hobbies, however strange she might have found them. Taught you the most difficult spells, and ensured her it was okay if you couldn't cast them perfectly right away. Some things took more practice than others. There was potential in you; you just had to work hard for a little bit longer.

She was right, every single time.

She learned from you what love was. That it wasn't a weakness. That it shouldn't hurt. She wasn't afraid of it anymore; she loved you openly, without fear, without shame. Without even a sliver of a doubt about your feelings.

You told her she looked happy. She said that she was. Had never been happier, and she had you to thank for it.

Rowena said a lot of things. Some of them were lies, and others the utmost truth. Some were insecurities baring their pointed teeth. Desperation and fear, thick as the blood in her veins. Pain. Sorrow. Helplessness she would never admit to out loud. Then there was confidence, loud as her voice, never wavering. Never backing down. Inner strength that rivaled her magic.

She was a complicated creature. One of a kind. An acquired taste.

You regretted not a single thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by miss-moon-guardian.


End file.
